


The Children of Joxter

by Icka M Chif (mischif)



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Blanket Permission, Families of Choice, Gen, Good Parent Joxaren | The Joxter, Joxaren | The Joxter Meets Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Snusmumriken | Snufkin Has Paws and a Tail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischif/pseuds/Icka%20M%20Chif
Summary: "I am a child of Joxter." The voice is thin and fragile, like the flutter of a moth's wing could shatter it, but somehow carries around the vagabond camp.Snufkin watches out of the corner of his eye at the voice as someone from one of the smaller campfires raises a paw. "Welcome, Sibling."It's not the first time Snufkin's heard the words or seen this little ritual.(AKA The Joxter learned about Snufkin after the kid ahd already disappeared, and then proceeded to spend years collecting every single child he ran across.Snufkin has SO MANY siblings.)
Relationships: Joxaren | The Joxter & Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 93





	The Children of Joxter

* * *

"I am a child of Joxter." The voice is thin and fragile, like the flutter of a moth's wing could shatter it, but somehow carries around the vagabond camp.

Snufkin looks out of the corner of his eye at the voice. It's a child, little taller than a woodie, thin and scruffy with a too large well worn coat wrapped around their narrow shoulders. There's something both defiant and hopeful in their gaze, their breath creating a halo around their head in the cold. 

Someone from one of the smaller campfires raises a paw. "Welcome, Sibling."

With a cry of relief, the small child dashes through the camp, and immediately leaps into the arms of the person who spoke. Several others around that campfire offer greetings, pats on the head and shoulders, a little bit of friendly teasing.

It's not the first time Snufkin's heard the words or seen this little ritual. Someone, usually a child proclaiming to be a child of Joxter, and being greeted as long lost kin. The 'Children of Joxter' tended to be young adults or younger, of varying ages and backgrounds. They didn't seem to be family by blood, but rather by choice. And they didn't always announce themselves either, not unless they were very young and new to being a vagabond, and are welcomed eagerly.

Originally he'd thought that it might be some sort of cult, except the more he observed, it was less an organisation and more a loosely associated group who provided assistance to each other when they needed it. 

He's watched it for years, initially with distant interest, and now with sharper, nearly burning curiosity.

It was only a couple of years ago that he'd met Little My and learned of his parentage thanks to her and Pappa's stories. He'd always known he was a mumrik, but learning of his mymble heritage had explained quite a few things as well. And now thanks to his sister, his mumrik father had a name.

The Joxter.

He didn't really have any need for parents. There was nothing they could provide for him that he couldn’t do for himself. Meeting the Mymble had cemented that impression as well. She'd been nice enough, but she hadn’t recognized him any of the times they’d met and she had enough children to take care of that she didn’t need another one to fuss over.

But the Joxter, he was curious about. Little My could barely remember him, and Pappa, as much as Snufkin loved him and his stories, was not a reliable narrator. And there’s so few mumrik on the road, none friendly enough for him to be able to really talk to either. 

Snufkin’s never run across another half-mumrik either. And he’s a little curious about how much of his personality is his own, and how much is lent from his mumrik parentage. Goodness knows that he didn’t seem to get much from the mymble side. 

He mulls it over in his head for a moment. He doesn’t like talking to people much, outside of Moomin Valley it tends towards expectations that he can’t fulfil. But it was nearly spring, only a few days' travel to Moomin Valley. If things went poorly, he'd just return a little early.

That thought in mind, he rises from the fire he's sitting around, stepping over the few people huddled by it and makes his way over. He pauses outside the circle, keeping a polite distance. “Well met.” He calls, counting five people. 

Every single head around the campfire snaps in his direction, their expressions happy and eager. It quickly dissolves to shock and confusion as they look at him, and he feels his stomach twist into knots, second guessing himself. “I mean no harm, I merely had some questions about the Joxter?”

That’s how Pappa always refers to him. Not Joxter, but _the_ Joxter, as if there could only ever be one of them. 

Whispers break out, people pressing against each other, staring at him in disbelief, but none of them actually say anything towards him. The scrutiny is uncomfortable and his tail lashes, smacking himself in the ankles. 

“Nevermind.” He mutters, backing up anxiety getting the better of him. “Apologies for the interruption. Safe travels.” He tilts his hat towards them and turns to return back to his tent. 

“Wait.” A young woman with strong arms like a blacksmith stands up and approaches him. She grips his chin, tilting his face towards the campfire with a paw that smells like coal fire and hot metal. He hisses automatically, showing sharp teeth. He almost swipes his claws at the offending limb, pulling his paws back at the last second.

“You’re a mumrik.” The young woman says with a bit of something like surprise but not quite, studying his face intently. He’s aware that his eyes are probably glowing in the campfire light, but there’s not much he can do about it currently. It’s a trait that he learned to hide early on as few people reacted well to his night eyes. 

Well, save Moomintroll, who adored it. Moomintroll loved everything he learned about Snufkin, accepting it all with a delighted enthusiasm that makes Snufkin ache. He forces the thought away. It does no good to think of his lovely Moomintroll while he’s on the road, it’s too much of a distraction. 

“What did you say your name was?” She demands. 

“I didn’t.” Snufkin informs her, pulling his face from her grasp and blinking a few times. 

Words have power. Names especially have power. Gave a person a way to control you. He doesn’t give his name away freely. 

They called him a mumrik when he was younger, before he understood the power of what words could do. They called him a vagabond for his restless nature. The words had shaped him into who he was now. 

It wasn’t until recently, when Little My moved into the valley and called him brother that he was able to reclaim his mymble heritage. 

Thankfully the young woman doesn’t take offence, nearly nodding and accepting it. “Join us by the fire.” She gestures for him to take a seat. Her expression softens a bit, as if realising how she must have come across. “Please. We thought you were someone we knew.”

“The Joxter.” He states flatly, and there are several nods from around the fire. 

“You know him?” One of the younger ones asks eagerly.

“No.” Snufkin admits, shoulders slumping a bit as he steps forward, taking a seat on one of the logs around the fire. His tail curls around him, and few eye it with eagerness. “But I’ve been told we have more than a… passing similarity.” 

“Your voice is nearly identical.” Someone volunteers, and several people nod in agreement. “You speak differently, but the voice is the same.” 

Snufkin files that information away, a little surprised by it. Out of all the things he shared with his father, having a similar voice never crossed his mind. 

“You’ve all met him then?” Snufkin inquires, to be greeted with a series of nods. 

“He took us all in.” The young woman who had grabbed him earlier explains. “I was one of the first, but each of us can tell a similar story. We were alone-”

“Sometimes in trouble.” A boy a little younger than Snufkin comments, raising his paw, to be greeted with a ripple of fond laughter.

“-And he took us under his wing.” The young woman says with an air of resigned amusement, as if the interruption was expected. “Adopts us, gives us what supplies he can, food in our bellies, teaches us how to live on the road. Sometimes he travels with a small group of us, sometimes with just one or two until we’re ready to take off on our own.” 

“Sometimes it’s just for an evening or two.” The person on Snufkin’s other side says, staring into the fire. They’re wrapped up in a blanket, and Snufkin can’t make out many details about them. “Sometimes it’s months.”

“I heard one stayed for years.” The interrupting boy adds. “That’s not as common though.” 

“Not all of us stay on the road.” A girl on the other side of the fire pipes up, and he realises that her clothes are a bit finer than the rest of them, not as patched. She doesn’t have the air of a vagabond, for all she seems comfortable in the circle. 

“But that doesn’t make us any less a child of Joxter.” The blanketed one next to Snufkin agrees. “Those who find a place to stay will help the others who don’t want to travel do the same, or give the rest of us a place to stay in case of emergency. We help each other.” 

“So when you said you’re siblings-” Snufkin ventures. 

“We adopted each other.” The non-vagabond girl smiles, and nudges the boy who interrupted earlier with a foot. “Even him.”

“Hey!” A brief tussle breaks out between them, and the young woman next to Snufkin just rolls her eyes. 

A touch on his tail startles him, and he finds the young child who’d drawn his attention in the first place petting it with a gentle paw. The kid looks up at him. “Do you purr?” 

“Sometimes.” Snufkin admits. Mostly in Moomin Valley, not so much on the road, unless he wasn’t feeling well and in need of comfort. 

They scrabble up onto his lap, pressing their face against his chest. Snufkin tenses, not expecting the contact. “Can you?” They request, looking up at him with bright eyes. 

Snufkin swallows, fingers flickering nervously. He glances around to find everyone watching him eagerly. There’s no hostility, more of a wistfulness to it. 

He nods once, closing his eyes and thinking of Moomin Valley. Of people who knew him and accepted him, vagabond and all. Mamma’s warm gaze and secret mischievous nature. Pappa and his playful grumbling, the two of them playing chess together, or discussing what book Snufkin should read next. 

Little My and her bristling protectiveness, and barely concealed affection. Snorkmaiden making flower crowns, sometimes draping him in them, chattering happily. 

Of lazy days with Moomintroll next to his side, going on little adventures. Laying out in the sun as he fished, either in silence, or little things like the weather, and what they should do later. Sometimes napping together, finding themselves pressed up against each other, Moomintroll’s soft fur, softer than anything else Snufkin has ever touched against his face and paws, their tails intertwined together. 

The purr starts softly, then builds up as the anticipation of returning to Moomin Valley takes over. He’ll be there soon. 

He startles a bit as he suddenly finds himself pressed in on both sides, and opens his eyes to find that the younger ones of the small group have sat next to him, leaning against him to feel the purr. The non-vagabond and the young woman stare at him wistfully, but don’t move towards him, for which he’s grateful. He doesn’t like being penned in. 

“Joxter purrs as we fall asleep each night.” The young woman explains. “Wraps his tail around us when it’s cold like a blanket. But the purr lets us know we’re safe.” 

Snufkin hums, something in him easing. ‘Safe’ is not something that is easily found on the road. He relaxes, letting the purr naturally grow in intensity, the vibrations growing deep in his chest. He puts his arms loosely around the little one in his lap, resting his chin on their head, flicking his tail into the lap of the blanket wearer, who makes a soft sound of delight. 

He’s not usually greeted with such joy outside of Moomin Valley. And while the physical contact is a little stifling, he’s willing to repay them for such kindness by putting up with it at least for a little while. It’s not entirely uncomfortable either, just surprising. 

“You had questions?” The young woman says, and Snufkin nods. 

“We don’t know where he is currently.” The non-vagabond gives him an apologetic look. “The last any of us saw him was about a week ago, to the south. He could be in many places right now.” 

Snufkin shrugs a shoulder. That’s fine. He hadn’t actually expected to see him. 

“I’m not ready to travel on my own.” The little one in his lap pips up, voice thick with sleep. “Thought I was.” 

“That’s fine.” The young woman assures them. “We’ll figure it out. You can stay with one of us for a while.” 

The little one makes a happy noise, cuddling closer to Snufkin. Their breath is slowing down and he has a feeling that they’ll be asleep before very long. 

It’s a good system too, providing a safety net for those travelling. A loose network of siblings. He sort of wishes he’d had that when he was younger, made some of the harsh lessons he’d learned not so harsh. 

The non-vagabond girl gives him a considering look. “Can you purr and talk at the same time?” 

“No.” Snufkin interrupts his purring to say, the rumble faltering for a moment before he can resume purring. He doesn’t know if it’s possible for a full mumrik to do so, but he can only do one or the other, but not both. 

The ones pressed up against him give her a dirty look for interrupting the purrs, to which she laughs back. 

The young woman makes a thoughtful noise. “I’ll tell you what I can, and you can ask questions later. Fair?” She offers, and Snufkin nods. 

“Like I said, I was one of the first.” She stretches her legs out, warming her feet by the fire. “Us calling ourselves ‘Child of Joxter’ came later. But I asked him why he was helping. Especially given so many wouldn’t.” 

“I travelled with him a few years ago.” The non-vagabond offers. “He told me ‘why not?’ and acted as if it wasn’t a big deal to be practically saving my life.” 

Snufkin snorts in amusement. 

“But I got a different story.” The young woman smirks. “He told me that he’d recently found out he was a father. That he had a son.” 

His purr catches for a moment. Snufkin swallows, taking a breath before resuming. The three leaning against him don’t seem to mind, and the blanket wrapped one pets his tail once, a soothing gesture. 

“He hadn’t known.” The young woman continues, turning her gaze up towards the stars. “And by the time Joxter found out about his son’s existence, the kid had been lost. No one knew where he was. Or even if he was still alive. So. Joxter was looking.”

Snufkin closed his eyes, feeling a bit overwhelmed. A large part of him had always assumed that the Joxter had known about Snufkin’s existence and hadn’t cared. Minimal attachments and all that. Little My couldn’t remember Joxter coming back, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened, the Mymble Clan tended to be tossed out of the house to burn off energy on a regular basis. 

But his father had been searching for him. Ever since he’d found out about Snufkin from the sound of it. 

“Obviously, I wasn’t _his_ kid.” The young woman gave him a grin, then flexed her massive biceps, so unlike Snufkin’s thin limbs. “But I was still _a_ kid. And if he couldn’t be there to help his kid grow up, he could still be there for the kid in front of him.” 

“I don’t think he anticipated how many kids he’d end up taking in.” The non-vagabond smiled fondly, kicking her feet mischievously. “He’s been doing it for well over a decade now, there’s hundreds of us spread across the lands. Built his own network by accident, looking for his kid.”

“He checks in on all of us occasionally too.” The young woman comments. “The only thing he asks of us is take care of our siblings when they need it, and to make him proud.” 

“Not that making him proud is hard to do.” The interrupting boy interrupts with a yawn. “Mostly means being happy and staying out of jail.” 

“Law-breaking is fine.” The young woman gives him a wink. “So long as we don’t hurt anyone, and we don’t get caught.” 

By that definition then, his father would be proud of him. Snufkin smiles to himself, feeling pleased for no reason he can discern. 

The young woman leans over the interrupting boy to look at his face intently. “You’re happy?”

Snufkin nods, ramping up his purr for a moment before letting it substised back down. He’s happy with his life, more content than he’d ever thought he’d be when he was younger. He has Moomintroll and the valley most of the year, and the world the rest. It’s not the most conventional life, but it’s his and what he enjoys. 

“Good.” She smiles, and it reminds him of Little My when she’s being soft and sisterly. 

They fall into silence, but it doesn’t feel awkward. The warmth of the fire and the bodies pressed around him make him feel sleepy, and he feels himself starting to doze off. It wouldn’t be the weirdest place he’s found himself sleeping. 

“I’ll take them.” A gentle voice rouses him before he drops off entirely. He slowly blinks, realising it’s the young woman, picking up the interrupting boy from his side. The kid makes a sleepy protesting noise, going limp against her. Snufkin watches as she takes him to a travelling wagon, disappearing inside for a moment. 

The non-vagabond is standing as well, brushing off her skirts. “I’ve got to get back home, I just wanted to check in with everyone.” She gives him a kind smile. “I’m a tailor’s assistant in town if you ever need me.” 

“Thank you.” He nods, tucking that bit of information away. “Safe journeys.” She inclines her head and walks out of the camp, waving to a few folks as she goes, obviously a familiar figure to the people here.

The young woman comes back, nudging the blanket wrapped one to their feet before taking the little one from Snufkin’s arms, escorting them both to her wagon. Snufkin rises and stretches, his tail curling a few times this way and that. He kneels down, banking the fire so it’ll smoulder all night, so they won’t have to relight it in the morning. 

A footstep makes him look up, and he finds the young woman watching him with a contemplative look. “You really do look like Joxter.” She asks. “Is he your father?” 

“I have no idea.” Snufkin says honestly. He sighs, rising to his feet and brushing his knees off. “According to someone who used to travel with him on the Oshun Oxtra, there’s a good chance.”

“‘Oshun Oxtra’?” She echoes in confusion.

“It was supposed to be ‘Ocean Orchestra’, but apparently there was a spelling mishap?” Snufkin shrugged a shoulder. “A fantastical ship built by a friend of theirs. They went on many adventures together. But the last they’d heard of the Joxter was him meeting my mother. And as you’ve pointed out, there are a great many similarities between himself and me.” 

She hums, then offers her paw. “Well, call yourself as a sibling of ours anyway. If you need any help, ask for any child of Joxter.” 

“Likewise.” Snufkin nods. Now that he knows what the call is about, he’ll be sure to answer. If it’s one thing Moomin Valley has taught him, is that it never hurts to have more friends. 

‘Sibling’ is a name he already carries, and he does not mind the weight of it. 

He takes her paw and shakes it. Her grip is solid and sturdy, but not crushing, and she releases him easily. She smiles, then gestures towards her wagon. “I’m a travelling blacksmith, and this is my wagon. It’ll be a little cramped, but you’re welcome to join us if you’d like.” 

He pauses, then shakes his head. The offer is a little tempting as the night air continues to hold the winter chill, but he’d like some time to get his head together. 

“No problem.” She says easily, like she’d guessed what he would probably choose. “Hope to see you on the road.”

“Same.” He agrees, then hesitates. “The next time you see him, if you can ask him if the woman was the Mymble? If it was, then you can tell him his child is doing fine."

“Will do.” She promises. Snufkin inclines his head and walks back to his tent before she can ask him any other questions, such as what is his name. It’s a silly thing, but if his father doesn’t know what Snufkin’s name is, he kind of wants to be the one to tell him. 

He curls up in his tent, sealing it shut behind him, then wrapping himself up in his blanket, tail curling around him. Sleep is elusive, and he packs up his camp and is on the road before the sun rises.

* * *

He mostly forgets about it once he reaches Moomin Valley, and is greeted by Moomintroll and his family. It was a chance encounter, little more than a few hours, similar to many he’s had on the road before. 

And there’s so many better things to think about when in Moomin Valley than a parent he’s never seen. 

It’s brought back with a vengeance when he leaves in the fall, passing through the same town that he’d talked with the Children of Joxter to get a few supplies to take with him. A large screech fills the air and he flinches, automatically looking for places to flee if need be. Vagabonds, innocent or not, make good scapegoats and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been accused of something bad for simply being within the area. 

Then a body impacts against him, nearly sending him tumbling towards the ground. He barely catches himself, turning to find the tailor’s assistant from the campfire on his way to the valley. “YOU!” She screams, and Snufkin nearly bolts at the loud noise. 

Instead, he finds himself being dragged off by strong paws around his wrists. “Come with me!” She demands, and he obediently trails after her, confused as to what situation he’s found himself now. 

She takes him the opposite direction of the vagabond camp. This is explained when they reach the edge of town, and find a blacksmith shop set up, with a semi-familiar wagon next to it. 

The blacksmith comes out, wiping her paws on her apron, glances up and spots them. It’s the young woman from the campfire that spring. “YOU!” She shouts, pointing a finger at him. 

“Me?!” Snufkin snaps back, aware of his tail puffed like a thundercloud behind him. He’s not used to people randomly shouting at him. 

“We’ve been looking for you everywhere!” She pulls him out of the tailor’s grasp and into a large rib squeezing hug. 

“Sorry?” He squeaks. This is all very confusing. 

“We were starting to think we’d dreamt you.” The blacksmith informs him. “We've been passing on messages, but there hasn’t been a whisper of your presence since we saw you.” 

“I don’t…” He wiggles out of blacksmith’s grasp, landing on his feet and straightening his pack. “I don’t tend to visit vagabond camps much. I prefer the wilderness.” He settles on. It’s not a lie.

He’s a little protective of Moomin Valley and its inhabitants, nevering saying the name of it while he’s away, lest he accidentally draw attention to the place.

He’s long held the suspicion that Moomin Valley is somehow protected. Few people have ever even heard of it, and those who do search for it are always surprised when they do find it. Those who are there for fortune or fame never stay long either, making their excuses and leaving quickly as if something within the valley itself forces them out. 

To his knowledge, Snufkin and the postman are the only ones that frequently traverse in and out of the valley. 

“You’d blend right in.” The tailor’s assistant muses, studying his dark green hat and coat with the air of a professional. He’s not entirely surprised when she idly picks up the hem of his coat, turns it over and starts to examine the stitching. 

The colour wasn’t the reason he wore them, it was more out of necessity and what he could find at the time, but he did privately admit that he also liked them for camouflage reasons. 

“You were looking for me?” He asks, tilting his head to the side, ignoring the tailor’s assistant for now. 

“Yes!” The blacksmith beams at him. “We got a hold of Joxter. He’d like to meet you.”

His heart gives an odd lurch at the news. He hadn’t honestly thought it’d be that simple. Just a single late night conversation with a couple of people and hey, your father would like to talk to you. “When?” Snufkin blurts, then hastily amends himself. “Where?”

“Week before spring.” The blacksmith gestures to her wagon. “Here. Well, this city. If that’ll work for you.”

“I can…” He swallows, his heart beating fast. “I can make that work.” Basically the same time and place he’d met with them earlier in the year. 

“Are you aware there are ivy leaves embroidered into the back of your coat?” The tailor’s assistant asks, tugging on the buttoned flaps in the back. “They’re the same colour as the fabric.” 

He hadn’t been, but that doesn’t surprise him. Mamma had stolen his coat for a little while over the summer when he’d been having a sleepover with Moomintroll. She hadn’t washed it, but she’d looked terribly pleased with herself when she returned it when she thought he’d been asleep.

“Ivy is supposed to be good luck for travellers.” He says instead, because Snorkmaiden had found a book on flower meanings and been very keen on everybody learning what the plants meant so they could send messages to each other. “A good friend did it.”

“Hmm.” She muses and keeps inspecting his coat. 

“Anyway.” The blacksmith looks amused. “I was just getting ready to pack and head south for a bit. Care to travel together?” 

He contemplates her words. He’d left because it was time to leave, the winter chill had started to frost the leaves, but he hadn’t quite been ready to leave his friend’s company for some solitude quite yet either. “I wouldn’t mind some company for a little while.” He agrees. 

* * *

He walks alongside her horse drawn wagon for a couple of weeks, the two of them occasionally chatting. It’s a little different, but nice. He disappears for a couple of hours each day, fishing and foraging, the two combining their food resources for meals. 

She asks for his name, and after some thought, he decides not to tell her, preferring to tell his father first. He rolls her eyes and refuses to tell him her name until she gets his, and they just call each other “Sibling” instead.

It’s a little ridiculous, and he kind of loves it. Each time they do it, it’s like stretching a small thread between them that connects them, growing a sibling bond. 

Eventually she stops to do some work and he wanders on. She lets him know her route to make it back to the town by spring, so they can meet up later if he’s feeling like it, and he likes that she leaves it open. She’s not a vagabond, but she understands their ways. 

He usually sticks to the wilds away from people in the winter, enjoying both the nature and the solitude, but he finds himself seeking out vagabond camps more often this winter. If there’s people about his age or younger, he’ll greet them as Children of Joxter, and is welcomed to their camp. Sometimes he ends up purring for them when there’s someone in need of comfort. One or two of them he ends up travelling with for a few days, giving them finer points on how to forage before parting ways at the next camp. 

It’s… not bad. It’s better than he would have thought. He certainly never would have gone travelling like this with his horde of mymble siblings, save maybe Little My.

He almost feels guilty about that. Almost. Then he remembers multiple mymbles gnawing on his tail like it was a tree branch and the guilt miraculously disappears. 

And every time he meets up with them, he gets stories about his father. About his father saving them, helping for them, caring for them. About Joxter’s kindness, even as he acts aloof or surly about it. How he teaches them how to survive, sometimes with silly little ditties. Sometimes there’s funny things like falling into streams, or his habit of sleeping in trees. The way his eyes glow, how his teeth and claws are sharp, but they never ever fear him despite that. 

It makes Snufkin so very happy to hear. He remembers when he first started on the road, and how hard it’d been to adjust, to suddenly have to find food if he wanted to eat. Mistakes he’d made when learning to pick a campsite, or failing to pitch a tent correctly. 

Snufkin hadn’t had anyone to help him with any of that, and he’s grateful the Joxter was there for all of his newfound siblings. The Joxter didn’t need to adopt every stray that he found on his path, but he had, and Snufkin felt strangely proud of his father for that. 

And then suddenly it’s like winter has slipped through his fingers and it’s the week before spring, and he finds himself back at the vagabond camp in the town a few days away from Moomin Valley, just before sunset. 

He’s nervous. Snufkin had tried to settle himself with some contemplation while fishing in the morning, but he couldn’t seem to keep the fish from jumping onto his hook. Which was good for his prospects for dinner, but didn’t make him any less nervous as he steps in, noting any familiar faces. 

The blacksmith’s wagon stands out as one of the few non-tent dwellings and he grins upon seeing it. The blacksmith startles and does a double-take as she spots him, raising a paw in greeting. “Welcome, Sibling!” She calls. 

“Welcome, Sibling.” He calls back with a smile and a wave, happy to have a familiar face. The tailor’s assistant suddenly appears, climbing up onto the back of the wagon next to the blacksmith, waving at him as well. 

As he approaches, he realises that there’s a large crowd gathered around the campfire behind the blacksmith’s wagon. At least two dozen, probably more, and he feels his guts twist in nervousness, it’s a much larger group that he feels comfortable dealing with, and they’re all turning to stare at him. 

Snufkin’s footsteps slow as he resists the urge to turn and run the other way. 

Then someone in a red hat very similar to his stands up and turns around. Snufkin finds himself meeting a searching blue gaze and fleeing is the last thing on his mind. 

It’s his father. It can’t be anyone else. 

He understands the confusion from a year ago now. They have the same silhouette. Body shape, facial features, even their clothing choices are eerily similar. The biggest difference is his father’s dramatic colouring, the pale skin and dark hair with catlike piercing blue eyes in comparison to Snufkin’s earth tones and sleepy looking eyes.

The Joxter approaches quickly, nearly tripping over his own feet before slowing down and stopping, staring at Snufkin as if he’s an illusion, tail curling uncertainty. 

He has a brief flicker of doubt, wondering if the Joxter will accept him, or if his father is second guessing finding him. 

And then the blacksmith cheers, and Snufkin glances over to find her giving him a shit-eating grin, waving her paws in the air. The tailor’s assistant is trying to get her to stop, and he huffs with laughter at his blacksmith sister’s antics as he realises that she and the others must have travelled a long way to see their father reunited with a long lost brother. He knows some of them, and is pretty sure he'll like most of the others as well. He hasn't met any that he hasn't liked so far.

And after all, his father adopted them, so they're his family now too.

“Exactly how many siblings do I _have_ , Poppa?” Snufkin asks, turning back to his father with a smile. 

He hadn’t known until the word left his lips how he would address his father. If Snufkin would call him Joxter, as if he was the stranger he is, or if Snufkin would call him formally as ‘Father’, or even ‘Dad’. 

He has a fraction of a second to wonder if he shouldn’t have, if that was a mistake when Joxter lets out a noise that’s half-gasp, half-sob as he lurches forward, closing the gap between them. 

“My son.” He wheezes, reaching for Snufkin. Snufkin steps forward, his feet light and quick, and impacts against his father’s chest, wrapping his arms around him. Strong arms enfold him, claws digging into his coat like anchors to keep them from being torn apart. They’re tall enough that it’s natural to hook their chins over each other’s shoulders like locking puzzle pieces. 

“My **son**.” Joxter repeats as he erupts into a deep rumbling purr that vibrates Snufkin down to his bones. Snufkin’s purr feels like a pale shade in comparison to the roar that is his father’s. Still, he purrs back, earning a sob-like laugh from Joxter. 

He’s never been anyone’s son for as long as he can remember. Pappa will sometimes call him ‘son’, but it’s an endearment, not a claim, like Mamma calling him ‘love’. 

“Where have you _been?!_ ” Joxter pulls back just a little, so he can study Snufkin’s face, his purrs unabated as he speaks, answering one question. 

“Here and there. I’m a vagabond, like you. I like to travel.” Snufkin’s purr breaks up into slightly choked laughter. “But you might have found me sooner if you visited old friends who live near here.” He grins brightly, teasing just a little. 

The Joxter’s eyes go wide, and Snufkin marvels at how vibrant of a blue they are, a rich deep blue like the ocean. “Moomintroll-?” He says, almost disbelieving. 

“Pappa, now.” Snufkin’s grin broadens, his cheeks almost hurting from the force of it. “His son is my best friend. I visit them each year in the spring, they treat me well.” 

Joxter lets out a disbelieving huff, shaking his head. “We should visit. Together?” He asks, almost hesitant and Snufkin immediately nods. 

“I’d like that.” He admits. He’d love to introduce his best friend to his father, explain about the massive network of siblings he’s somehow gained. It’d probably make Mamma and Pappa’s happy too, to see their old friend. 

Although Little My is probably going to bite him for not telling her last summer about finding information on his father. He doesn’t mind the thought, biting is how his sister shows she cares. 

“Alright. But first, one important question.” The Joxter says, cupping Snufkin’s face with his paws, the pads warm against Snufkin’s skin. “What is your _name_?” He demands, almost annoyed and it makes Snufkin laugh, just a little bit. 

“Snufkin.” He smiles back, tail looping happily as his father silently mouths the word to himself, repeating it. 

“I’m Snufkin. Child of Joxter.” 

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the realisation that we haven’t dealt with Joxter much in fic, and I’ve enjoyed the “Joxter is a Good Parent” tag on Ao3. Also the fact that Snufkin is _everyone’s_ big brother in the 90s series. 
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr as both Ickaimp and Icka-Notes, and wandering around in perplexed confusion in several Moomin discords as Ickaimp.


End file.
